Well, it’s here. And for once, I can say — not as complaint, just as an observation of the bottom line — I’m really getting murdered. Where is all that dough going? Don’t want to delve into it at this late hour.
I will commend today’s Writer’s Almanac, though: It’s got a nice short history of taxes, introduced by a lovely and appropriate poem about depression, which starts:
“When in a deep depression of the self,
I see on every side, on every hill,
like the lit mansions of the rich, success
of others, hear the echoes loudly praise
my rivals, feel my plodding soles sink deeper
in the cold ashes of hope, and feel
the tepid drizzle of self-pity stain
my cheeks …”